'You look like a man with something on your mind, Hank,' he said. 'And seeing how my girl didn't last the distance I've got nothing to do but listen.' He laughed and pulled a cigar from his jacket pocket. 'And I don't much fancy listenin' to that old goat tryin' to get it up. So, what's on your mind, Hank?'

  'My name isn't Hank Connybear, it's Dick Browning. Just as yours isn't Charley Moon.' I took the posters out of my pocket and spread them on my knee. I also took out my pistol and pointed it at the third button of his swelling waistcoat. 'It's Robert Carter or, if you prefer, Coldknife.'

  He looked at me for a minute, then he got his cigar lit. After the first puff he burst into a deep, gurgling laugh. Tobacco and whisky fumes rushed across the space towards me. 'Well, Hank . . . 'scuse me . . . Dick or whatever the hell you want to call yourself. I'm powerful glad that you've made your move.'

  'What d'you mean?' I held the pistol steady; that's one thing I can do no matter how scared I am.

  'First time I saw you I thought you was just the man for an important job Ollie and me have in mind. But until right now I didn't know if you was ever goin' to be desperate an' mean enough. Well, you are. Put the gun away and let's have a drink.'

  11

  Charley (I never got into the way of calling him Robert and Coldknife seemed a mite unfriendly), filled me in on the true story of how he and Ollie struck it rich in '97. There certainly wasn't much back-breaking labour to it. Along with another man named Daniels, they robbed the bank.

  'And killed a Mountie,' I interjected at that point in the tale.

  'Pity, that,' Charley said. 'T'weren't intentional. It was a stray bullet; might not even have been fired by us but that's the way they told it.'

  'And they would've hung you for it.'

  'Yup. Three on a meat hook if they coulda catched us.'

  'How did you get away?'

  'You're rushin' me. Want a drink?'

  I considered it but I still wasn't comfortable with Charley. His jacket was big and loose enough to hold a small gun and from the way he moved, like when he bent to light the fire and straightened up, all very smooth, I didn't doubt that he could still move fast if he had to. 'No drink,' I said.

  'Suit y'self. I see you've still got that six shooter in reach.'

  That's right.'

  'You any good with it?'

  'Good enough.'

  'Might have to be. Well, to get on with the story, Matt . . . you know who I mean?'

  'Call him what you like.'

  'Yup. Matt and Fancy Daniels, that was what he was called on account of the duds he wore – coloured weskits and such – we rode outa town, it was about this time o' year, you understand, roads an' trails still open, an' we got up into the hills and started a landslide.' He grinned at the quarter-of-a-century-old memory. 'Blocked the roads an' we had the best mountain ponies in the Territory.'

  'So you all got away and lived happily ever after.'

  'Nope. First thing you have to understand was that a lot of the loot was in gold, dust an' nuggets, and gold is heavy.'

  'So I've heard back home – Ballarat and places like that.'

  Charley grinned. 'Knew you was an Aussie, somehow. Well, that's all to the good. As well as divvying up the loot we had to divide the gold an' paper money. Now, Matt and me was strong young fellows then an' we could carry just about anything. Not so with Daniels, though. He'd done spent his life in saloons an' brothels so he had lung disease and plenty of other things wrong with him. He could ride 'n' shoot all right, an' play cards an' drink an' poke girls, but he couldn't lift nor carry worth a damn.'

  'But you had horses,' I said.

  'Sure we did. We had horses all the way to where we took to the rivers.'

  'Rivers?'

  'Best way outa the Territory then an' now. Bein' an Indian, half leastways, I knew some people who could help us. We travelled by river an' creek way to the south an' then we had horses again. That is, Matt 'n' me did but poor ol' Fancy didn't. His horse fell and broke its leg. Fancy had to shoot it.'

  'Where was this?'

  'I'll get to that. This left Fancy with his paper money an' his gold an' no way to travel.'

  'What about you and Ollie?'

  We was willin' to take Fancy up behind us in turns an' his paper money but not his gold. That'd be too much for the ponies.'

  'So . . . ?'

  'So Fancy had to bury his gold.'

  'Ah, and you know where.'

  'More or less.'

  'Daniels didn't get back to it?'

  'He was shot to death in Butte, Montana not long after we made it down to the United States. We split up as soon as we crossed over. Matt 'n' me travelled together a while but we went our separate ways too.'

  'And prospered.'

  Charley threw his cigar butt in the fire. 'Yeah, I guess. But there's not a man alive wouldn't want an extra hundred and fifty thousand dollars.'

  'How much?'

  'You heard. Not long back Ollie found out how soon after our great escape Fancy cashed in his chips. He asked around, talked gold to folks who knew, and he calculates that the gold Fancy Daniels buried is worth about that figure now. Untraceable, an' there for the takin'.'

  'Where for the taking?'

  'Ah, now that there's the point. Matt 'n' me's too old for the trip. What we come up here to do was to find someone to make the trip for us.'

  'I see.'

  'Figured you would. It'd be tough. There'd be walkin' or dog sled travel, plus some time in a canoe and then some time on horseback. You can ride, can't you?'

  'Better than most.'

  'Knew you was the man for the job.'

  'You'd trust me with a hundred and fifty thousand dollars?'

  'Nope. There's only one way across the border in the parts you'd be travellin' to. Matt 'n' me'd be there waitin'.'

  'What would my share be?'

  'One sixth. Twenty five thousand.'

  'That's a hell of a lot to me but it doesn't seem like so much for you and Ollie . . . Matt.'

  'No, well, it ain't really. But the truth is it gets kinda dull just sitting around old an' rich. I had a hankerin' to see my country again. Matt, well, he's willin' to go on the river himself if he has to. He wants one last adventure, it looks like. Mind you, it would be his last. I ain't so foolish.'

  'What guarantee have I got that you wouldn't just shoot me after I bring out the gold?'

  'None. But like you say, the actual money don't mean all that much to us. An' what choice have you got, Dick? It's my scheme or the Mackenzie for you. An' remember this – you'd be goin' south towards the land of the free an' the brave.'

  'And the rich,' I said.

  'That's what you'll be if'n it all works out.'

  'What're the odds, Charley? And I will have a drink now if you've got one handy.'

  'You're seein' the light, brother.' He walked in that slinky, light-footed way he had across the room and opened a cabinet. 'Rye or bourbon?'

  'Either.'

  With a glass in my hand and the rye warming my throat, the prospect didn't look so bleak. I listened as Charley outlined the plan; he would provide the initial transport and provisions and could arrange for me to meet an Indian who would travel with me to and down the river. He said he'd draw a map showing me where to leave the river and where to go on horseback, first to Fancy Daniels' cache and then to the border and freedom. It all sounded easy, poor fool that I was.

  'Matt'll be disappointed,' Charley said.

  'Why?' I held out my glass for a re-charge.

  'He was hopin' to go himself, like I said. When you jumped offa the train he done give up on you.'

  'But you didn't?'

  'Nope. I figured you was a survivor an' that's what we want.'

  'You're right. I'm a survivor.'

  'Good. That's a quality goin' to be in demand.'

  I thought back to those words of Charley Moon's many times in the weeks that followed. At first, everything went smoothly enough. Charley convinced his partner that I was the man for the job after all. Fitzgerald had outfitted his victims pretty thoroughly, so I was well kitted-up for the trip south. I was even able to get my hands on a Winchester '73 lever action rifle which was one of the few firearms the patrol was going to take. A shotgun would have been an asset but as Fitzgerald's sainted uncle hadn't taken one (and therefore probably helped to condemn his men to death by starvation because birds were the only game available), young Fitz wouldn't have one along.

  It had come on to snow heavily and this decided the mode of transport for the first leg. Charley spent the Saturday acquiring a sled and provisions and most of Sunday morning packing and strapping the sled. I occupied myself with the dogs, getting to know them and letting them get used to me. I also met the Indian, a grim-faced, squat little fellow named Eli Hardpebble who spoke minimal English in such a guttural tone it was hard to understand him. I practised my few words of Kutchin which seemed to please him. That is, his face relaxed from its clenched, hatchet-in-the-brainbox look, and his grunted response wasn't hostile.

  The plan was to leave at sundown when the town was occupied with feeding itself spiritually or gastronomically. An hour before, Charley and Matt took me into the freezing little shed we were using as a headquarters and we got down to the serious business.

  'Here's your route to the river,' Charley said. He'd marked it in a thick red line on a standard survey map. 'You get over the mountains usin' the pass here.'

  'Over?' I yelped. 'Over, in this weather?'

  'Won't be too bad just yet. Eli's done it a hundred times. Just trust him.'

  I thought of that crinkled face and trust wasn't the word that came to mind. 'Do you trust him?'

  'Uh huh,' Charley grunted, suddenly sounding like an Indian himself. 'I do an' it's partly a matter o' blood kin. Now pay heed, Dick. Eli'll get you a canoe and you move down river, going east and south.' He traced the route with a wide, horny thumbnail.

  'That's not just one river,' I said.

  'Right,' Matt Tolliver slapped his thigh and produced a silver flask. He took a swig and re-corked it. 'Best to start off sober and stay that way. You're right about the river, less'n they've gone and cut canals through and I can't see how they could through that solid rock.'

  'There's a little portin' to do, Dick,' Charley said.

  'Porting?'

  'Carryin' the canoe. By the time you get down there you won't need many provisions. The fish jus' jump out o' the water for one thing. You'll make out OK. Eli knows all about it.'

  I lit a cigarette and wished Tolliver would produce the flask again but he didn't make a move. He was still suspicious of me, and doubtful, probably, but not as doubtful as I was myself. I blew smoke and tried to look unconcerned; I had no choice anyway as Charley had said. 'Fine. What happens after I leave the river and part company with Eli? Where's the bloody gold?'

  Charley produced a pouch from his inside pocket. It was wrapped in oilskin and sealed with tape. A leather thong hung from the binding. 'It wouldn't do for you to be dwelling on the gold jus' yet, Dick. Wear this inside your shirt. Put the thingummy round your neck . . . that's right. What you've got there is a map and instructions to make you a rich man. Open it up when you get off the water. Like a reward.' He leaned closer to me and I could smell the after-effects of the barbering he'd had that morning. I was conscious of my own rank smell and inferior status. 'An' don't let Eli see it,' he whispered.

  Well, that was wonderful – I was to go off into the frozen wastes trusting my very life to a savage who would observe blood kin obligations so long as there wasn't any big money involved.

  'You scared?' Matt Tolliver said.

  'Yes.'

  'Be a fool if you weren't.' He raised his flask to me in a silent toast.

  Charley gave him a sour look and punched me encouragingly on the shoulder. Through the heavy shirt, sweater and lined coat I was wearing I could still feel the weight of the punch. 'In the pouch, Dick, you'll also find the details on how to find us once you're over the border. That part'll be child's play.'

  'What will you two do if I don't turn up?'

  Matt turned away and spat out the window onto the cold hard ground. There was a light snow falling as the day died.

  'Good cover, that snow,' Charley said.

  'You haven't answered my question.'

  'Don't hardly have to,' Matt said, 'because it doesn't make any sense. Where you're going there's only one way through. Eli'll see you make it till you get to this place. If you don't make it through it'll mean you're dead and Charley 'n' me'll come up here again and do the job ourselves. We've got a deal.'

  Charley nodded. 'But we'll see you in Washington State, Dick.'

  'Next year,' Tolliver added.

  12

  Wherever I am, on a beach, even in a sauna, I get cold when I think of that journey I made with Eli Hardpebble in the early winter of 1922. I've heard since that it was a particularly mild year without major storms and blizzards and of course we were heading away from the really cold zone. That's in theory. Because there was a fair amount of 'up' and considerable 'east' in it, and the going was harder and colder than any travel I ever experienced, before or since.

  The company was part of the problem. The only thing Eli said for the first eight hours was, 'Snow cover tracks. Good.' That tended to be the style of his conversation in fact. He made practical observations and registered approval or disapproval of them. 'Big wind comin' up,' he might say. 'Bad.' I'd nod and prepare for more suffering.

  I haven't the faintest idea of the route we took or even of the direction we travelled. Eli led the way with me spending as much time up on the back of the dog sled as I could. The practice I'd had with Fitzgerald stood me in good stead and I didn't disgrace myself although the dogs seemed to find it hard keeping up with Eli's tireless tread. The first night we made camp before dawn in the shelter of a big rock. Over the soup and bread I asked Eli how he was able to move so fast on the snow. He took a long slurp from his mug (his eating style was just a notch or two more civilised than that of the dogs), and pointed to his snow-shoes leaning against the rock.

  'Big,' he said. 'Good.' He jutted his chin at my shoes which were much smaller.

  'I know,' I said. 'Small. Bad.'

  Eli nodded.

  This was another one of young Fitzgerald's idiocies. The original Dawson Patrol had used small snow shoes for some reason and this had slowed them down. The nephew was determined again to prove uncle had been right. I've often wondered what happened to Fitzgerald II's patrol – probably had to be air-lifted out17.

  As we went higher the snow got thicker, the nights got colder and we had to pitch a tent each time we stopped. We ate the heavier food first, like the canned goods and the vegetables, and after a week it was a miserably tedious diet of rice, beans and salt meat. We carried fish and meat for the dogs and some nights Eli set snares for rabbits and hares. He wasn't always successful and there wasn't a lot of meat on the ones he caught, but it was welcome. We fed the bones and offal to the dogs.

  The actual crossing of the mountains, even though it was through a pass and well below the peaks that towered above us, was arduous. I was either in a sweat of fear or a sweat of exertion or frozen to the marrow. If you think it's impossible to have a freezing cold prick you're wrong. Try marching through snowdrifts of the right depth, with soaking wet clothing and a sled in front of you pushing the snow and slush back, and you'll get the effect all right. I've often wondered if a woman could experience the corresponding discomfort but the topic has never come up. Women, on the whole, are too smart to walk hundreds of miles through ice and snow. The exceptions would be Eskimo and Indian women of course, but you don't talk about discomfort to an Indian woman. You stick to basic subjects like your own bravery, what's in the pot and who farted under the bearskins.

  Which brings me to the second leg of the journey – on the rivers on the eastern side of the mountains. I was drawn fairly fine by the time we made the crossing. The food had run out for both dogs and men and there'd been no game for a couple of days. I'd had too little sleep, too much walking and not nearly enough whisky. Charley had forbidden us to pack any which turned out to be the right advice given the way Eli behaved later, but it seemed like a severe hardship at the time. A bad snowstorm, an injury to Eli or myself or an accident with the dogs and I'm sure I'd have left my bones on those mountains. It makes me cold to think of it [Browning breaks off at this point, evidently to get himself a fresh bottle. The tape machine is turned off and when he resumes he appears not to have followed his usual practice of running the tape back to replay his last words. Consequently, he picks up the story somewhat in advance of where he left off. Ed.]

  Eli traded the dogs, the sled and harness for a canoe and provisions. We also picked up some company, a small band of Kutchin. They were travelling in the same direction to meet up with some others who had been working for timber millers further south. Believe it or not, their intention was to head northeast to do some trapping.

  'Won't they slow us down?' I asked Eli. The band consisted of two old men and one old woman plus four younger women with small children.

  'Woman strong, carry canoe. Good.' Eli said.

  If he meant carry our canoe I was all for it. The thing looked pretty heavy – stitched sections of hide stretched over a heavy wooden frame with solid ribs. The paddles were heavy too, and by the time we got it loaded, with our food, tent, groundsheets, guns and ammunition, I doubted my ability to lift it off the ground let alone carry it. Charley was right about the fish though. I could see them in the clear cold water, darting across the stony bottom and rising for insects. We might drown, but we wouldn't starve.

 

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